


Ashes, Lambs, and Sunrise

by AconitumNapellus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Easter, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 11:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18520705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AconitumNapellus/pseuds/AconitumNapellus
Summary: Easter Sunday, and Napoleon and Illya have escaped from Thrush, again. They spend the night together in an abandoned shack, where a sheep in labour joins them.Written for Spikesgirl58, for the mfuwss Easter challenge on LiveJournal.This is not exactly 500 words...





	Ashes, Lambs, and Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spikesgirl58](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/gifts).



The softest time was always just before the dawn.

The dark was almost absolute. There were acres of fields around this tumbled old hut, and the light that shone in the valley didn’t reach this far. Somewhere, in the darkness, a stream gurgled. They had used it to wash their hands and quench their thirst after the run. Perhaps, when light came, somewhere they would find food.

They lay together on the soft earthen floor, a little curl of bodies. Illya’s head rested on his loosely clenched fist. Napoleon’s warmth was curled along the back of him, protective despite neither man being in need of protection. The little fire they had built had died down to embers and then to ash, but there was still some warmth in the earth around. It was April, after all. The world was coming alive.

Napoleon’s arm was slipped over Illya’s side, loose over the loose dirty cloth of his jacket. They would both need new suits. It didn’t matter for now. For now their clothes smelt of sweat and smoke and soil and sheep, but they kept out the chill. Despite Illya needing no protection, this was a good place to be, lying like this curled along the man he loved, arm over his flank, listening to his sleeping breaths and feeling the beat of his heart. Napoleon could indulge in a tenderness when Illya was asleep that his partner would never tolerate when conscious and alert.

Napoleon lay half awake, his eyes on the place where the doorless doorway stood. He couldn’t see anything. The dark outside was almost indistinguishable from the wall. It was just a little lighter out there; a deep purple black pricked with stars.

The sheep had wandered in a few hours ago. Illya hadn’t stirred, but Napoleon had woken up just enough to reassure himself that there was no threat. The scent of lanolin had filled the air, and the sheep had stood there a moment, lit faintly by the dying fire. He had expected her to run out when he moved, but she didn’t. She just stood there. By the smell of the place, it wasn’t an unusual occurrence for a sheep to take shelter here. After a while, Napoleon had let himself fall asleep again.

He touched his lips to Illya’s hair in the darkness. Behind the soil and sweat he could still smell the core scent of Illya, the scent of his shampoo, the scent of his scalp. It was a sweet joy. He moved his hand and stroked the light silk of his hair, then rested his arm back over his waist. Illya stirred a very little, but he didn’t wake.

On the other side of the shack, the sheep was softly grunting, half a bleat that was such a visceral sound it resonated through Napoleon’s nerves. It was a gentle noise of pain. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. She just made that noise, every few minutes, then fell silent.

Napoleon closed his eyes and let the warmth of sleep wash over him like waves.

  


((O))

  


When he opened his eyes again he could see the walls as blackness, but the dawn outside was bringing the world to life. There was a pink strip far away, cut across by the branches of trees just starting to bud into leaf. There were clouds catching gold on their undersides. The sky was starting to lighten to eggshell blue.

‘Huh?’ Illya murmured, as if Napoleon had asked him a question.

‘Dawn,’ Napoleon murmured in reply, his mouth against Illya’s hair.

‘S’at’noise?’ Illya asked.

‘There’s a sheep,’ Napoleon told him.

He could just see it in the growing light. It was lying on its side near the wall, still making those odd bleating grunts.

‘I think it’s ill,’ he added.

Illya stirred a little more, blinking, unclenching his hand and rubbing his eyes.

‘Not ill,’ he said after a moment. ‘Labour. Napoleon, she’s lambing.’

‘Oh,’ Napoleon said slowly, suddenly feeling at a loss.

Illya was on his knees, from half asleep to wide awake in a matter of moments. The light was growing imperceptibly, but it was brighter every moment. Napoleon could see the thick contours of the fleece, like a cloud in the sky. Coloured raddle marked the wool with dull red. The animal’s eyes were patient but pained, her mouth open a little in a low pant.

‘She’s having trouble,’ Illya said.

Napoleon sat up too, looking between Illya and the sheep. Illya had smudges of ash on his face and clothes from the fire he had set before they had escaped and run. He looked like a little boy who had been playing somewhere forbidden.

‘Since when were you a farmer’s son, tovarisch?’ Napoleon asked. ‘I thought you grew up in a city?’

‘I did,’ Illya said, ‘but I didn’t spend all my life there.’

He said no more than that. He was taking off his jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves. He dusted dirt from his palms. He moved over to the sheep on his knees and put a hand on the thick fleece. She looked at him, showing the whites of her eyes, but she didn’t try to move away.

‘There, there,’ Illya murmured softly, focussing only on the sheep. He moved his fingers in the deep wool, and spoke something in Russian.

‘Uh, should I get towels and hot water?’ Napoleon asked, feeling out of his depth.

Illya laughed very softly. He turned on his knees to look at the animal’s rear end, lifting the dirty tail.

‘It’s coming,’ he said. ‘Look.’

For a moment Napoleon felt squeamish, but then he looked, and saw a couple of stick-like legs protruding from the sheep’s body, the white wool made pink with blood and fluid. The little cloven hooves were black like soft and shining bits of coal.

‘Do you know what you’re doing, Illya?’ he asked.

‘Not entirely,’ Illya murmured, ‘but maybe enough.’

He was moving his fingers deep in the sheep’s fleece, scratching the taut side beneath, then he moved around and touched those small, stick legs.

‘It’s coming,’ he said again. ‘She’s just tired, I think. She needs some help. How long has she been in here?’

‘I don’t know,’ Napoleon admitted. ‘A while.’

Illya stripped off his watch and handed it over. Napoleon put it in his pocket.

‘Need help?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ Illya replied.

Napoleon wished he’d said yes. Then there would be something to do. He stood up and walked to the door, feeling like a nervous father on a labour ward. Outside the globe of the sun was just starting to show above the horizon, a blazing orb of molten gold. Birds chorused somewhere in the trees. The wind was so slight as to be non-existent. It was hard to believe that twelve hours ago they had been running from Thrush, and the blaze of a burning building. It was hard to believe there was violence anywhere in the world.

Behind him, the ewe bleated softly, and Illya murmured back in Russian. Napoleon turned around to see the sheep’s side heaving.

‘We have a head,’ Illya said.

It was such a small thing, soft-lipped, its ears small and laid flat. It looked as if it were sleeping.

‘Is it – It’s not dead, is it?’ Napoleon asked. He had seen many dead bodies in his line of work, but this felt tragic.

‘We’ll wait and see,’ Illya said grimly.

With a final heave the lamb was expelled in a rush of fluid. Illya knelt, scooping mucus from the mouth and nose. He patted the wet, unmoving side, and bent his head down close to the mouth.

‘Get out of the way,’ he said to Napoleon. ‘Go and stand in the doorway.’

‘Huh?’ Napoleon began.

He didn’t have time to question further. Illya had picked the lamb up and got to his feet. He held it by the back legs and began whirling it about his body in spinning circles, like a man gone mad.

‘What the – ’ Napoleon started, holding up an arm to protect his face from the flying slime.

Illya lowered the creature down and laid it softly on the earthen floor. He put a hand on its side and gently pressured there.

‘Breathing,’ he said, panting. He wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘The passages get filled with mucus. That forces it out. He’s breathing.’

‘Oh,’ Napoleon said.

He felt bewildered and stupid, but the lamb was alive and the sheep was softly bleating.

‘He’s big,’ Illya said, rubbing his hand firmly over the lamb’s flanks. It was starting to move its head and blink its eyes. ‘No wonder she had trouble.’

He glanced over at the sheep, and Napoleon followed his gaze. She was straining again. Another lamb was emerging. Illya watched her, but he stayed with the first lamb, rubbing its sides with his hands. The second lamb came out with no trouble, in a little gush. The first lamb was starting to try to stand by the time Illya was touching the side of the second lamb. This one was breathing, its eyes blinking open and its mouth moving as if in search of a teat.

‘There,’ he murmured, moving both lambs around to the sheep’s head. She nuzzled at them gently, bleating.

‘I never pictured you for a midwife, Illya,’ Napoleon commented, and Illya laughed.

‘A good morning’s work,’ he said. ‘We should stay around a little longer, make sure she delivers the placenta, make sure they drink.’

Napoleon smiled. ‘I have nowhere to be. Do you?’

Illya laughed quietly, holding up his hands. ‘I have an appointment with that stream,’ he said. ‘But apart from that...’

Napoleon came and knelt next to his partner. The sheep was still nuzzling and licking at the lambs. Both were trying to work out the meaning of legs.

Napoleon reached up a hand and wiped a little spot of bloody mucus from Illya’s face. Then he leant in and gently kissed his lips.

‘Every day you do something to amaze me,’ he said.

‘You must have learnt flattery at your mother’s knee,’ Illya said, but he sounded pleased.

  


((O))

  


The sun was up above the level of the trees now. It was going to be a beautiful, warm day. Somewhere children were probably waking, starting out on Easter egg hunts arranged by their parents, sticky with chocolate and full of fun. Here, the only sounds were the birds, the sheep, and the fast moving water of the stream.

In the old wooden hut the sheep was sheltering with her lambs. They were dry, feeding, and managing to stand on all fours. Illya had proclaimed them safe. At last he and Napoleon had left them and walked down to the stream.

A glittering pool lay below a crag of rock, filled by a little waterfall of splashes and white foam. It must have been widened out from years of water falling, of winter floods and ice cracking stone. The pool had grown into a wide, still bowl, the water forest green and cold as dawn. At the poolside, Illya stripped, and Napoleon watched him as he stepped into the water. Light rippled over his skin. He sank in waist deep, and stood there, gasping.

‘Cold, huh?’ Napoleon asked with a grin.

Illya’s teeth were chattering. ‘Chilly,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s bracing. Why don’t you come on in?’

Napoleon laughed. ‘I’m not crazy. I think I’ll just watch you.’

He stood and watched as Illya ducked down under the water, then came up, spluttering and shaking his head. He rubbed his hands over his arms and chest and face, then clambered up out of the pool, shivering and dripping.

‘All right,’ he admitted. ‘It’s freezing. But I’m clean.’

‘You are, very clean,’ Napoleon said, putting his hands on Illya’s arms. His biceps were hard and slippery wet, but he pulled Illya closer and kissed him as he was, naked and slick with water. ‘You could do with drying off.’

‘A stroll will do it,’ Illya shrugged, gloriously unselfconscious under the strengthening sun.

‘How about if I warm you up?’ Napoleon asked.

Illya laughed, glancing down at himself. ‘It was so cold that everything’s retreated inside my body,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back to the shack.’

The sheep was still there, standing now, the two lambs suckling urgently, their tails rippling in their delight. She nuzzled them and bleated softly as they fed. Illya stood leaning against the wall just outside the door, and the rising sun painted every water-beaded facet of his body in gold.

‘Midas couldn’t have done any better,’ Napoleon said in appreciation, drawing one finger down the centre of Illya’s chest.

‘I wonder if we could share some of that milk,’ Illya mused, and Napoleon spluttered.

‘Sheep milk? Are you serious, Illya?’

‘Plenty of cultures make use of sheep’s milk,’ Illya shrugged. ‘But she must be letting down colostrum at the moment, and the lambs need it. Ignore me. I’m just hungry.’

He lifted a hand and touched Napoleon’s cheek, then pushed off the wall of the shack and tilted his lips towards his partner’s. They kissed under the low golden sunlight, and Napoleon pushed his arms about Illya’s cold, naked body, stroking water from his skin and pressing his own blood heat into him. He moved a hand down to Illya’s firm buttock, and squeezed lightly.

‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but, get dressed,’ he said, ‘and then we’ll go find something to eat. I’m sure there must be a farmer’s wife somewhere hereabouts who would love to feed you up. There’ll be time for everything else later, when we’re both warm and fed.’

Illya glanced back towards the open doorway into the hut.

‘Let me get a bit drier,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll go inside, and I’ll see how well you can warm me up.  _ Then _ I’ll get dressed, and we can hike out of here. With luck, we’ll find somewhere to eat and make some phone calls, and before you know it we’ll be back in the middle of civilisation, and this will all feel like a dream. But first, I want you to warm me up. It’s Easter, after all. It’s when things come to life.’


End file.
